


The Setting Suns Are Open

by apocryphalia



Series: Material Culture [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is very into Crowley's hands, First Kiss, First Time, Love Confessions, M/M, Museums, Not because I have a weird thing for hands shh, Tapestries, weird metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 16:48:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20727506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocryphalia/pseuds/apocryphalia
Summary: All at once, Aziraphale could understand exactly how humanity had fallen from grace. He pictured a long-fingered hand outstretched, a perfect, bloodred fruit hanging from the tips of slender fingers just as this glass of bloodred wine was held before him now, just as countless other glasses had been held before him over the millennia. He pictured the brief brush of skin on skin as his own solid hands accepted the offering, the touch of red fruit flesh against his lips while gilded eyes looked on.Hardly a choice at all, really. Eve must have been powerless against such a temptation.Aziraphale was only now realizing that he, too, had been powerless against this demon for quite some time.Six months after the averted apocalypse, Crowley and Aziraphale take a trip to America. Aziraphale sees something in a museum that leads him to reflect on his feelings for his best friend, and to make some long-overdue decisions.





	The Setting Suns Are Open

**Author's Note:**

> Both the tapestry [Aziraphale](https://www.doaks.org/resources/textiles/catalogue/BZ.1929.1) is looking at and the one [Crowley](https://www.doaks.org/resources/textiles/catalogue/BZ.1946.16) is looking at in the opening scene are real, and both are in the Dumbarton Oaks collection in D.C. I believe they’re both currently on display at the Textile Museum as part of [this exhibition](https://museum.gwu.edu/woveninteriors), but I haven’t had the chance to go yet, so I can’t confirm.

_For all that, the setting suns are open._

_The end cracks open with the beginning;_

_Rosy, tender, glittering within the fissure._

—D.H. Lawrence, “Pomegranate”

** **

** _Washington, D.C., present day_ **

Aziraphale stared down at the tapestry under glass before him and the inscription proclaiming its central figure to be Hestia, Full of Blessings. The ancient goddess of the hearth wore a crown of pomegranates and a golden halo. She was surrounded by six cherubic figures crowned with flowers and bearing trays of offerings. A haloed man and woman flanked the cherubs, which the museum label identified as _genii_, and the man, too, wore a crown of unidentified red fruit.

They had been at the Textile Museum for hours, examining furnishings from early Christian Egypt. Crowley had suggested the exhibition, knowing that Aziraphale had had a particular fondness for Egypt in ancient times, and that he had been close to several of the Alexandrian church fathers of the era. Aziraphale was still unsure whether Crowley secretly had his own interest in the textiles or if he had truly brought them here just for Aziraphale’s sake.

He glanced up and around, scanning the gallery for Crowley, and found him across the room frowning slightly at a tapestry fragment featuring a duck and a disembodied head. He watched the demon for a moment, unobserved. Noticed the way his eyebrows drew together over the rims of his sunglasses, the slight protrusion of his lower lip. Watched as one hand snaked its way out of a tight pocket to scratch absently at the back of a fiery head. Saw his head shift upward slightly as Crowley noticed his gaze, and all at once the tension in that long frame melted away, his eyebrows unknit and his mouth settled into a tiny, soft smile. Aziraphale felt the breath catch in his throat as he was suddenly seized with the urge to cross the room and pull those dark glasses from his friend’s eyes, to glimpse the entirety of the expression currently trained on him. Instead, he clasped his hands in front of him to stop his traitorous fingers trembling as Crowley began to move toward him.

“Ready to get out of here, angel?” Crowley asked softly, circling around Aziraphale to peer curiously at the Hestia tapestry.

Aziraphale swallowed, not trusting his voice for a moment. He nodded, cleared his throat, and gave Crowley a trembling smile as he finally answered, “Of course, my dear. Shall we do dinner?”

***

They walked out onto the street side by side, Crowley’s hands back in his pockets and Aziraphale’s still held in front, with mere inches separating them. Aziraphale had found himself increasingly aware of Crowley’s physical presence in the months since the failed apocalypse. His heart skittered in his chest, and his fingers twitched with the impulse to reach across the distance between them, to take Crowley’s hand in his own. Resolutely, he kept them twined together, but he couldn’t resist casting periodic glances to his left.

Crowley’s hair glowed red in the light of the setting sun. The same color as the blood currently thrumming in Aziraphale’s veins, with every heavy thump of his traitorous heart. The color of apples and pomegranates; the color of original sin. Aziraphale thought of the tapestry in the museum, with Hestia and her crown of pomegranates. Hestia Polyolbus, whose pomegranates represented blessings and prosperity. But to earlier Greeks, pomegranates had symbolized death and the rot of winter. It was a handful of pomegranate seeds that had trapped Persephone in the underworld.

There are versions of the story in which she chooses to eat the seeds, to become the Queen of the Underworld, the dread Persephone, rather than the maiden Kore.

Eve chose to eat the apple, to gain the knowledge of good and evil.

That free will thing really was a bugger. And it seemed that he and Crowley had somehow contracted the disease.

***

They settled on dinner at a historic restaurant with upscale fare and an impressive wine list. Aziraphale found the antique-style décor charming. Crowley rolled his eyes and muttered something about _fussy angels_ under his breath, but Aziraphale caught him throwing curious glances at some of the more elaborate architectural features as the maître d’ led them to their table.

They ordered a bottle of a rather nice Châteauneuf-du-Pape and settled in to peruse the menu. Once the waiter had departed with their orders, Crowley held out his glass for a toast, balanced on delicate fingertips with the stem trailing between middle and ring fingers. The wine sloshed red, nearly tumbling over the rim. Red again, that color of pumping blood, of trembling hearts, fruits of knowledge and prosperity and death.

_Eve chose to eat the apple._

All at once, Aziraphale could understand exactly how humanity had fallen from grace. He pictured a long-fingered hand outstretched, a perfect, bloodred fruit hanging from the tips of slender fingers just as this glass of bloodred wine was held before him now, just as countless other glasses had been held before him over the millennia. He pictured the brief brush of skin on skin as his own solid hands accepted the offering, the touch of red fruit flesh against his lips while gilded eyes looked on.

Hardly a choice at all, really. Eve must have been powerless against such a temptation.

Aziraphale was only now realizing that he, too, had been powerless against this demon for quite some time.

He thought back to the Hestia tapestry, to the other fine works that had surrounded it in the museum, and to the skilled hands of the artisans that had made them. He had been there, in Egypt, in the sixth century, when Hestia was being woven. He had never seen the tapestry back then in its full glory, but he could still remember how it must have come to be. Could picture the deft fingers of so many long-forgotten women, coaxing their brightly colored threads through the warps on the loom, _over-under-over-under_. Beating down the weft until the structure underneath was hidden, only the images on the surface left visible.

He was beginning to feel that he, like the inner structure of those tapestries, was hidden behind a surface image, just starting to come apart or fade from view after centuries of wear.

Crowley’s long fingers had the same deftness he had seen in those Byzantine women so many centuries ago. They would be more than capable of weaving something every bit as intricate as the ancient examples—and unweaving, too. Aziraphale imagined those fingers digging into the weft of his carefully woven façade, gently prying him apart to find the warp threads hidden underneath. Imagined the caution of six millennia coming undone, unraveling under the feather-light touch of delicate hands and the gently piercing gaze of amber eyes.

He could feel those eyes trained on him now, behind the dark lenses, as he finished his duck foie gras. Crowley had barely touched his own food, as usual, apparently preferring to watch Aziraphale. Under normal circumstances, Aziraphale would be too preoccupied with his meal to notice. But tonight, Crowley’s gaze set his skin aflame. He felt his pulse quicken as he squirmed under the demon’s scrutiny, tugging on his collar as he suddenly realized the restaurant was uncomfortably warm.

He lay down his fork, leaving the last bite uncharacteristically untouched, and in less than a minute their waiter appeared at his elbow.

“Would you gentlemen care for any dessert tonight?” the young man asked as he gathered their plates.

“No, thank you,” Aziraphale replied, and Crowley nearly choked on his wine.

One eyebrow, arched over the rim of his sunglasses, interrogated Aziraphale as the waiter scuttled off to get their check.

The angel blushed.

“I rather fancied an early night,” he said defensively, raising his eyes to meet Crowley’s dark lenses. “Perhaps we could take a few bottles of wine back to the hotel and order room service instead.”

***

The cool night air was a balm to Aziraphale’s overheated skin as they walked the few blocks to their hotel. They stopped along the way to pick up several bottles of a mediocre red wine, which would find itself miraculously transformed into a much nicer vintage by the time they reached their hotel room.

Aziraphale was quiet as they passed through the hotel's reception area, nodded to the doorman and the concierge who greeted them, and made their way to the lifts. He took his customary position to Crowley's right, pressed the button for their floor, and looked down at his fidgeting hands while the lift lurched into motion. Once again, he found himself almost painfully aware of the scant few inches separating himself and Crowley. His skin prickled and began to heat again. His mouth felt uncomfortably dry, and his throat stuck as he attempted to swallow.

"All right, angel?" Crowley asked quietly, and from the corner of his eye, Aziraphale could see the demon eyeing him with concern around his dark lenses.

Aziraphale nodded quickly, gripping his fingers tighter to keep them still.

"Of course, my dear boy. It's just a bit stuffy in here, that's all." He hoped the excuse would explain away the flush he could feel rising in his cheeks, the hitch in his breath as his mind, unbidden, flooded again with images of Crowley's hands touching him, Crowley's eyes watching him with slitted pupils blown wide, Crowley's lips stained red with wine.

When they reached the door to their room at last, Aziraphale very nearly collapsed into the chair at the desk. He poured them each a glass of wine with shaking hands, and downed half of his own before making his way to the bed opposite the one on which Crowley was already laid out.

** _London, two weeks earlier_ **

Aziraphale was sitting at his desk when he heard the tinkle of the bell over the door to the bookshop, and he turned around to see Crowley walk in carrying a bottle of wine under one arm and a large roll of paper in the other. In spite of himself, the angel felt an automatic smile break out on his face, his inventory quickly forgotten. In the months since the world hadn’t ended, he had seen Crowley nearly every day, at least until this week. Although they had not been apart long enough for him to grow worried, Aziraphale suddenly realized how terribly he had missed his friend.

“I think we’ve earned a holiday,” the demon announced as he crossed the room in several long strides. As he reached the desk, he laid down the paper in his right hand, unrolling it over Aziraphale’s inventory lists to reveal a world map.

“Pick a place, angel, anywhere you want to go. We can have crêpes in Paris again, or sushi in Japan. Or we can go lounge on a beach somewhere warm, in Spain maybe, or Alexandria. Haven’t been to Egypt in a good millennium or so.”

Crowley shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he waited for Aziraphale to answer. When the angel simply looked at him, slack-jawed and temporarily speechless, he continued in a rush: “Or we could go somewhere new. Never saw most of America, personally. I just thought, well, now we’ve been left alone for a while, might be nice to do some travelling… not, er, for work…”

Aziraphale struggled to listen to Crowley over the pounding of blood in his ears. His friend’s words from six months prior echoed in his mind.

_We can go off together._

_We’re on _our_ side._

When Crowley had first tried to convince him of these things, he had still been laboring under the last of his delusions about Heaven’s righteousness. Since then, he had openly defied his superiors and helped put a stop to Armageddon. He had, quite literally, been to Hell and back. He and Crowley had been conducting their friendship openly for months, and neither had made any attempt at wiling or thwarting in all that time. Still, at the repeated suggestion that they go away together, and with no ulterior motive save one another’s company, Aziraphale felt the old, familiar panic rising in his chest.

For a moment, it paralyzed him. He contemplated saying no, falling back on old excuses. But what would be the point now? he wondered. Heaven and Hell were already aware of their association. They had spent nearly every day together since the failed apocalypse, and had seen no trace of their former employers.

Besides, on how many lonely nights in the last eighty years had he fantasized about such things, loath though he was to admit it even to himself?

The demon’s words slowly filtered down into his consciousness. Aziraphale suddenly started and cut off Crowley’s rambling pitch, answering several beats too late: “Yes, I think they were still throwing tea into the harbor last time I was in America.” His brow furrowed. “That is, unless you count that little incident while I was discorporated, of course.”

“America, then?” Crowley prodded, with a hopeful little smile.

“Well, I never did see the capital…” Aziraphale said thoughtfully.

“What, Philadelphia?”

“No, they built a new one, I don’t know, 20 years or so in. Washington. Weren’t you there sometime last century? It would have been there then.”

“Eh, I was in New York,” Crowley said. “Never paid much attention to the rest of America. Maybe it’s time to change that now.”

Aziraphale agreed, and they spent the rest of their evening drinking their way through several bottles of his own stash, in addition to the vintage Cheval Blanc Crowley had brought, as they discussed their travel plans. Long after the demon had drifted off on the sofa in his back room, Aziraphale lay in bed upstairs, his book forgotten on the nightstand. Though he had long since sobered up, his stomach churned with excitement and uncertainty over Crowley’s proposed holiday.

He had been aware for the better part of a century now that he harbored certain feelings for Crowley. He had always kept a careful lid on that particular corner of his mind, allowed himself to enjoy the demon’s company on occasion, but never to admit that his fondness extended any farther than the friendship which was a natural result of knowing someone for six thousand years. Since the events of the previous summer, however, Aziraphale had been struggling more and more frequently to keep his feelings at bay.

He had reason to suspect that Crowley might even return his affections, and this latest proposal only added fuel to the fire of his suspicion. Aziraphale knew, though, that it would likely be up to him whether anything beyond friendship was in the cards for them. Crowley had been silently reaching out his hand for centuries, leaving it up to Aziraphale whether or not to take it.

** _Washington, D.C., present day_ **

Two hours after their arrival at the hotel, they were on their last bottle of wine, having fallen into the same patterns of peaceable companionship with which they had passed so many nights in Aziraphale's bookshop. With the wine making him feel pleasantly hazy, thoughts glided across the surface of the angel’s mind, never staying still long enough to latch onto. He looked over at Crowley, still in his sunglasses, sprawled out across the other bed with his head lolling against the wall, and was overcome by a sudden rush of affection.

Even in his drunken state, there was one thing Aziraphale knew now: he _wanted_ Crowley, every part of him. Wanted to feel the soft touch of his lips and hands, everywhere, wanted to see the demon lose all control and come apart under his own touch. Wanted to see him waking up in the morning and lying down to sleep at night. Wanted to take his hand as they strolled through St. James’s Park, to gaze openly at him over dinners at the Ritz, to curl up together on the sofa in the back room of his bookshop.

Aziraphale took a deep breath as he stood on shaky legs and crossed the few feet between their beds.

Crowley’s head swiveled around liquidly to gaze toward Aziraphale as he sank down onto the mattress next to one bony hip, a sliver of skin exposed between the tight waist of the demon’s trousers and his dark shirt, rucked up under his back from all that drunken sprawling. With one subtly shaking hand, Aziraphale reached out to pluck the glasses off his friend’s face, carefully folding in the arms and placing them on the nightstand. Crowley blinked at him with bleary eyes as he turned back to pick up one slender hand in his own.

“Crowley…” he began, desperately trying to gather together some sense out of the confused web of his thoughts. His mind felt like it was moving in slow motion, an ant trapped in molasses, while his heart appeared to be making a valiant attempt to beat its way completely out of his chest.

Finally, after an eternity that spanned the length of several heartbeats, he said simply, “I love you.”

Crowley’s head snapped up and he sputtered, “I… you… ngk… ‘Ziraphale…”

He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, and shook his head as if to clear away the lingering effects of the wine. “’M too drunk for this,” he muttered eventually.

The demon squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing as the alcohol worked its way out of his bloodstream at an accelerated pace. Aziraphale recognized, somewhere in the depths of his clouded mind, that Crowley probably had the right idea, and he followed suit.

When he reopened his eyes, Crowley’s newly-clear ones were staring at him intently. In the absence of the alcohol that had been egging him on, the pounding of Aziraphale’s heart sped up even more. For a moment, he feared it might simply explode and discorporate him. He wondered how he could possibly explain that when he got back to Heaven, whether there was any chance they would issue him another body after what he and Crowley had done. After what he had just said aloud for the first time.

“Angel,” Crowley said finally, as Aziraphale floundered in silence, staring into Crowley’s yellow eyes with his own panicked blue ones. “What did you just say to me?”

Aziraphale came back to himself at last. He had already spoken the words out loud, already broken down the dam he had built and fortified over centuries. He had admitted his most wonderful, terrible secret and had not been immediately struck down by the wrath of the Almighty.

If Crowley needed to hear it again, he would say it again. Today, and every day for the rest of their eternal lives.

He picked up the hand he was still holding and brought it to his lips.

“I love you,” he repeated, pressing a gentle kiss to one delicate finger.

“I love you,” he repeated, moving on to the next.

“I love you. I love you. I love you.”

_Let me count the ways,_ he thought. _For each of your fingers, and each of your toes, and each of the notches in your serpentine spine. I can think of a new reason for every star in the sky._

He paused with his lips still held against the demon’s palm. “I’m sorry I haven’t said it before,” he breathed. “I’ve known for some time, but I was so afraid…”

“Not anymore,” he continued more firmly, eyes flicking back up toward Crowley’s. “I love you, my dearest.”

He pressed his lips to Crowley’s wrist, flicked his tongue lightly over the pulse point there, marvelling at the rapid rhythm he could feel pounding underneath the skin. At the evidence that Crowley was as affected by this exercise as he was.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley choked out, still staring at him with wide golden eyes. “I swear to Go—Satan—_someone_, if you don’t knock that off and kiss me _right now_—”

Aziraphale did not need to be told twice, but he refused to let go of Crowley’s exquisite fingers. Instead, he reached across the demon’s body to take hold of his other wrist, holding both hands at his sides as he leaned over to catch Crowley’s lips in his own.

He had intended to start off slow and sweet, but after a moment, Crowley’s lips parted as he _groaned_ into Aziraphale’s mouth, and he instinctively took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, hungrily chasing after the other’s intoxicating flavor. It was rich and slightly smoky, like a well-aged scotch, with a sweet, red-wine aftertaste from the bottles they had consumed.

Eventually, Aziraphale pulled back and sat up to drink in the sight of Crowley beneath him. At some point he had moved to straddle the demon’s sharp hips, and he could feel Crowley’s desire, as well as the matching tightness in his own trousers. Crowley’s lips were red and slightly swollen, his eyes glowing in the half-light from the single lamp lit in the corner of the room. His slightly overgrown hair spilled a fiery halo against the white hotel pillows, and a rather delicious flush was spreading from under the collar of his shirt.

He looked like temptation incarnate. Aziraphale was reminded again of Eden, of his vision of Crowley offering him the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, and he was seized with the sudden urge to bite, to consume the redness of him.

He leaned down once more, nipping at the flesh above Crowley’s collar, finally releasing his hands to fumble at the buttons of his shirt. He slid down Crowley’s long torso, leaving a feverish trail of kisses as he worked his way down to the last button, and lingered on the sparse copper hair above the waistband of his jeans. He kissed his way along the depression between Crowley’s hipbones, and the sound the demon made rang through Aziraphale’s veins, setting his whole body aflame with desire before pooling low in his stomach.

“Angel… _please_,” Crowley groaned, one hand coming to rest on Aziraphale’s temple, fingers tangling in his hair.

Aziraphale did not lift his head, but unfastened Crowley’s belt and jeans as he continued exploring with his mouth, biting lightly at one prominent hipbone. As he slowly peeled the demon’s trousers down, he once again followed them with his lips, placing kisses down one thigh and up the other. Finally, agonizingly slowly, he looked up at Crowley as he licked up the length of his cock, closing his lips over the head. Crowley’s eyes rolled back and fluttered shut as he cried out, and Aziraphale returned his attention to the task before him.

He swallowed Crowley down, savoring the taste and the way his lover trembled underneath him, hips bucking, fingers clutching blindly at Aziraphale’s hair, his arms. Crowley’s wordless vocalizations were simply exquisite, better than any concert he had ever attended, better than the finest wine at the finest restaurant he had ever been to.

“Gah—Az-Aziraphale—_angel_—I need…” Crowley stuttered, tugging at his hair.

Aziraphale lifted his head at last, and Crowley pulled him back up into a crushing, desperate kiss. The demon snapped his fingers and Aziraphale’s clothes vanished. Surprisingly sharp fingernails dug into his shoulder blades.

“Fuck me, angel,” Crowley whispered as he pulled away, voice ragged and breathless.

A desperate moan was torn from Aziraphale’s lips at the words, and at the wide-open expression of love and naked desire that accompanied them. He nodded wordlessly, and crushed Crowley’s mouth to his own once more as he reached beneath him with miraculously slick fingers.

It was like an electric shock when he finally pushed himself inside, every nerve in his body crying out with the pure pleasure of it. He held onto Crowley’s hips like a lifeline, like he might come apart at the seams if he loosened his bruising grip. The demon didn’t seem to mind; he held onto Aziraphale’s shoulders the same way with his razor-sharp fingers, calling out the angel’s name like a devotion.

“Aziraphale—God—_yessss_, angel.” Crowley tightened around him as he came, his blasphemy unheeded by either of them. Sharp waves of pleasure ran through Aziraphale, bringing him spiraling to his own release alongside Crowley.

They stayed still for several minutes, Aziraphale collapsed on top of Crowley as their wild heartbeats and breathing began to slow. Eventually, he pulled himself up and rolled off to the side, gathering Crowley into his arms. He pressed a soft kiss to the demon's temple, and those bright yellow eyes opened and looked up at him. A soft, almost disbelieving smile played around the corners of Crowley's lips. He reached out to cup the back of Aziraphale's head with one long hand, and brought him in for a long but chaste kiss.

"I love you, too, angel," Crowley said as they finally pulled away. "_My_ angel."

"My demon," Aziraphale replied, holding him closer still. "My darling, my dearest."

They passed the rest of the night twined together in Crowley's bed. The demon eventually drifted off to sleep, and Aziraphale simply watched him, awestruck. The faint lines of worry he had been only distantly aware normally resided on Crowley's face faded completely while he rested in the angel's arms. Occasionally, he would twitch or smile faintly in his sleep, and Aziraphale realized with wonder that he must be dreaming. Selfishly, he wondered if he ever featured in Crowley's dreams.

As the light of the sun began to trickle into the room in the wee hours of the morning, Aziraphale watched it spread slowly across Crowley's sharp jawline, the faint shadow of hair growth along his cheeks, the dark lashes that fluttered slightly when they were met with the first signs of light. Finally, the sun reached his temples, and Aziraphale was overwhelmed with a mix of emotions as he watched his red hair catch fire in the light before him.

_Six thousand years_, he thought. Sixty centuries they had known one another, and it was only now that Aziraphale had finally shed enough of his fear to admit that he hadn't truly seen Crowley as the enemy for most of that time. That he had really grown quite fond of the demon, had fallen for him head over heels, in fact. They could have been doing this long ago, he reflected, and should have been all along. They had lost so much time. But for however many years or centuries the Earth had left before the end came again, Aziraphale determined, he and Crowley would make the most of them, together.

***

The second bed in their hotel room was forgotten for the remainder of the trip. Aziraphale and Crowley spent their days walking hand in hand on the streets of D.C., smiling at one another over drinks and dinners and desserts, and they spent their nights curled together in what had originally been Crowley's bed, Aziraphale reading or gazing contentedly at his love while he slept.

When they returned to London, they held hands over dinner at the Ritz and pretended not to see the knowing smiles the staff shot each other across the dining room. Crowley sped through the city in the Bentley while Aziraphale's hand rested on his thigh. They spent each night in either Crowley's sleek flat or the ancient bedroom above the bookshop, and soon they began to discuss a change in their living arrangements.

Nearly a year to the day after the first day of the rest of their lives—six months since their first night together—they finished packing their earthly belongings and miracled the boxes into a small cottage near the sea.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on twitter and tumblr @apocryphalia!


End file.
